Gerald caught the look and slipped the weapon into his pocket. ‘Certainly those are names of the most undistinguished, and I would scorn to have them. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. It isn’t law, nor custom, nor masculine violence settled that. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. .
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